[Albion] My father and the Goldstone

[Guinness Boy]

Sincerest condolences mate, sorry to hear of your loss. I mentioned when I was first on the Roar that my dad didn't take me, instead I went with his friends. I would have loved to once so cherish that memory.

 

[Brighton Mod]

And the splashback could sometimes be... awkward.



"Get that bloody board down..."



Everyone smoked in the North Stand it seemed. Even those who didn't.

The over-riding smells of the day...

Goldstone - Cigarette smoke and rancid chip fat
Gillingham - decay
Withdean - curry sauce on chips
Amex - the pies



The best memories known to man. Cherish and enjoy...

Thank you, may I just add, the film that defines my childhood, I saw probably more than a dozen times with my father
every time it came to Brighton, the film was ....

Cherish and enjoy, my father wrote to me when I was serving in the Gulf as 29 year old Staff Sargeant, and finished the letter telling me that I should take of myself and that my mum and himself loved me. It was the first time in my life they had ever said that, another defining moment in my life. Now i'm terminal and it looks like my parents are now going to have lost their two sons in their own lifetime, every second counts, the Albion has been core to our lives, a place to go, a subject to talk about, it espouces our values and a is community.

 

[Binney on acid]

Very poignant. Thanks for sharing.

 

[Deleted member 2719]

Sorry for your loss TLO.

I am sure it's tough for you at the moment, this day has yet to change my life, so its hard for me to imagine your grief, but I do genuinely feel for you.

 

[Uncle Spielberg]

Keep strong big Al

 

[*Gullsworth*]

Nice words TLO thanks for sharing. Condolences to all your family.

 

[Magic Sponge]

Sorry for your loss.
Reading your story reminds me of when my dad took me to my first game at The Goldstone in the early 70's, my dad was a carpenter too. He passed away in 1999 and I still miss him loads, just wish he could have seen us play at The Amex.
He has left me with so many memories and BHAFC running through my veins.
I'm now able to enjoy games with my daughter and pass those memories onto her as well as making our own.
Thoughts are with you and your family.
RIP

 

[Driver8]

Sorry for your loss.

Like you my brother [MENTION=2928]PILTDOWN MAN[/MENTION] and I were taken to the Goldstone for the first time by our dad (Peterborough at home, 1976, we won 5-0) and my first memory is wondering why there wasn’t any commentary!

We got the bug and followed the team all over the country. Being pre M25 away games often meant driving through London and I’m sure I still remember the route!

Our dad lost interest during the war years and we lost him a few years ago but my brother and I kept going through thick and thin and he would be proud I’m sure of where we are now.

 

[Dolph Ins]

My Dad only ever went once. It was a cup game, early 70's? We were in West Stand next to North Stand and it was so full we stood on a pile of brieze blocks. Dad absolutely hated it and we left at half time and went to the pub ( I only got a coke and bag of crisps).

 

[maltaseagull]

Someone told me that NSC can be a place of catharsis; of sharing, so I hope I can beg your indulgence and tell you a story of my Dad, me and The Goldstone Ground. I wrote this last year for the Goldstone Days evening at the Theatre Royal.

Why am I posting this? My father, my mentor, my friend, and the man who took me to the Goldstone Ground for the very first time, passed away yesterday. I'd wanted him to take me, and when he finally did, it was brilliant. This is for my Dad - I hope it strikes a chord with you...



In the mid-late 1970s, my father was a self-employed carpenter. Most Saturday mornings he would head to the small industrial units in Newtown Road, Sackville Road and Conway Street where there were painting and decorating shops or an electrical store or a general hardware store. These stores always stank of white spirit – whatever they were selling – and ran by a kindly old fella called Reg or Stan. Think The Two Ronnies’ Four Candles sketch, and you’ll get the picture. This was way before the DIY sheds came along.

His eight year-old son (me) being keen to know what his Dad was doing, would merrily bowl along, in the oft-forlorn hope that he would be able to take a left turn to watch Brighton play at The Goldstone Ground.

In those days, Brighton were on the up. Recently-retired firebrand Alan Mullery was the new manager, and a cocky upstart called Peter Ward was banging the goals in for fun. It was a good time to start being interested in football in Brighton.

Every Saturday afternoon, we’d have to traipse to my Nan and Grandad’s house to see the rest of the (large) family. The room was full of cigarette smoke and endlessly boring chatter. My Nan and I would watch the wrestling on ITV; Nan spitting venom at the baddies, me waiting for the football results to come up.

I’d sit patiently waiting for the Division III scores to come in, not having a clue where the Albion were playing, nor against whom on any given day. But we seemed to win most weeks, and we were always near the top of the table.

I’d been pestering Dad about when we could go to the Albion. I had no idea how dangerous it might have been – there was a lot of hooliganism back then – I just wanted to see my (as yet unseen) heroes play.

So it came to pass, we were on another visit to Hove one Saturday lunchtime in September 1978. I assumed I was merely accompanying Dad on another white spirit-sniffing escapade. We parked up somewhere nearby and, as we were walking along Old Shoreham Road past the North Stand turnstiles, he turned to me and said, “fancy watching the game...?”

HALLELUJAH!

We eventually found a turnstile to Dad’s liking leading to the terrace in the West Stand, north end. I had to go in a separate entrance to him, so Dad gave me my 20p to get in, and in I went. From there, everything was simply magic for me. All the things I’d dreamed going to a football match would be was all perfectly true.

I can vividly remember so many details – the sunny day, the loud noise from the North Stand about Peter Ward being magic, all being sung by skinny blokes in their late teens and early twenties with massively flared jeans and ridiculously androgynous hairdos. Scarves – blue and white, of course – were worn on wrists, and everyone smoked.

And I also learned a fair few words of Anglo-Saxon I only thought the naughty children in the playground said. I had no idea adults swore; I thought they’d grown out of it by then.

We won 1-0 against Oldham Athletic. Wardy claimed the goal, but it went down as an own goal. I couldn’t see the south goal from where I was standing. So it was great when I saw Gary Williams (I recognised him from the Evening Argus) taking a corner. Peter O’Sullivan was flying down the wing. Brian Horton bawled lumps out of everyone, friend and foe...

As much as I’d pestered Dad to go before, this was nothing compared to how much I wanted to go again. He never did take me again though, so as soon as I could, I went on my own.

From the age of 12, I walked from our home near Preston Circus to The Goldstone Ground every home match, and took my place in the North Stand. I met up with a few of my schoolfriends there, and we had a good time. In the 19 years between my first and last game at the Goldstone, I probably went about 300 times.

While we’re at it, let’s call the Goldstone for what it was – a dump. Behind the North Stand, the food kiosk was next to the toilets, and most times you couldn’t tell which was which. As the years passed, the terraces were crumbling, neglected by the arrogant local businessmen who ran the club who seemed to care not one jot for the welfare of the lifeblood of the club – the supporters. But it was our dump, and we were proud of it. It was home.

So when it came to the club announcing that they were selling the ground and moving to Portsmouth, I was intrigued, then concerned, then outraged.

I’d kept my spot in the North Stand for years (aside from the times they closed it to build the new roof – and the time they handed it over to Pompey fans for one match). Now it seemed someone wanted to end all that; not just the Goldstone, the club. Some things are sacred; this must not happen.

The story of how things turned out between 1995 and 1997 is now the stuff of legend, and everyone who played their part knows who they are – as should every single Brighton fan. Me, I did more than some, less than others – but i can confidently raise my glass high and say with satisfaction that I was there.

But, like the Bobby Goldsboro song, I’ll always go back in my mind, to the very first time - and that piece of magic, going to the football with my Dad, will stay with me forever.



RIP Dad. And thank you. UTA.

Fantastic story. RIP to your Dad.and sorry for your loss.

My Dad never took me as he ran a grocers shop and worked every Saturday.
I did get taken in 1963 by a man that worked for my Dad. I was 11.


I got to take my Dad to see Brighton V Ipswich in the league cup in the late 70s and we had to sit in the South stand (My first and only time) I took my son to the Goldstone,

 

[Horton's halftime iceberg]

Sorry to hear this Al. A story that resonantes with a lot of us. My Dad took me to the Albion even though he hated the violence and players diving, so I too also (got a paperrouund) progressed to the North Stand with my mates. My Dad also took me to the cricket and only stopped going the past two years as he was unable to sit for long periods. Him and my Mum came to the first game at the Amex (Sussex Senior Cup game) to have a look but have never been since. But when I lived away and came back to see them we would often catch a game at the Goldstone, walking down together and back. I am glad you have this memory of him and that he set you off on this life long rollar coaster Albion ride. I also felt so lucky we had the Albion and Sussex CCC on our doorsteps.

 

[PILTDOWN MAN]

Sorry for your loss.

Like you my brother [MENTION=2928]PILTDOWN MAN[/MENTION] and I were taken to the Goldstone for the first time by our dad (Peterborough at home, 1976, we won 5-0) and my first memory is wondering why there wasn’t any commentary!

We got the bug and followed the team all over the country. Being pre M25 away games often meant driving through London and I’m sure I still remember the route!

Our dad lost interest during the war years and we lost him a few years ago but my brother and I kept going through thick and thin and he would be proud I’m sure of where we are now.

Not sure how he would feel about us beating his first love this season.

 

[The Large One]

I say my final goodbye to Dad today.

Thank you for all the messages of condolence and sympathy, they've certainly helped. I'm also pleased that the story in the original post struck a chord with so many. I've had friends coming up to me, offering condolences while relating their own 'Dad/Grandad/Uncle took me to my first gave too...' memories. Strength in unity.

As the eldest son, I will be reading the eulogy today - something he asked of me - and I fully intend to do so, not with sadness and mournfulness, but with pride and dignity. At least I will try to. He had made his peace, and he said he was prepared for anything - except pain. Thankfully, his last few hours were very peaceful.

I am but my father's son, and if the last thing I ever do for him is to give him a good send off, I believe he would have been happy with that.

Thanks again, everyone.